Ensnared
by Asa Valkyrie
Summary: Blaine's exposed curls are too much for him and he runs out of prom, just as Kurt did last year. Warning: vomit, blangst


Sometimes putting one foot in front of the other seems the hardest thing you've ever done. Blaine Anderson would know all about this.

He opened the gym doors, a wave of perfumed heat and bass and drum sound waves hit him like the pang of nauseous anxiety disturbing his abdomen as he poked his curl-laden head through, searching for Kurt or a flash of his top hat.

Shakily, he dodged packs of chiffon-clad girls, shimmering with sequins as sensory overload impeded his mind. The iridescence of light refracting from each sparkle, the ascending pitch of each over-excited drama queen's laughter, the obnoxious grinding of teenage bodies that threatened to knock into him carelessly with each swell of the electronica's ebb. Whenever someone happened to notice him, they furrowed their eyebrows in shock or laughter as Blaine cowered away from their disapproving stares. _Where is Kurt? _pressed Blaine as he darted through the crowd, compulsively tapping at his thigh until the dulcet brown of Kurt's hair caught his attention. Naturally, he relaxed as his eyes settled on his beaming boyfriend, dancing with Mercedes as Sam stepped out to get drinks. Brittany and Santana were to their right, boldly grinding against each other, a statement that they will not back down in the face of prejudice. As Mercedes dropped her jaw, Kurt curiously looked to her startling point of focus.

"_Oh my dear God." _Blaine's heart sank. He knew this was how it would end up. No one should see him like this, his hair so unruly and out of order, like a million colored pencils haphazardly- shamelessly -thrown into one box or a Beethoven String Quartet overlapping the crunchy overdrive of Katy Perry's four chords. It was nails on a chalkboard, the collective gawking stare of Kurt, Brittany, and countless others. Mercedes had quickly left to avoid causing Blaine further embarrassment.

He needed control. Over his hair, his racing heart, his quickening breath despite his feeble attempts to count himself into a more relaxed state, his eyes starting to tear as the all-too-familiar feeling of dread hit him, the same way that straight shot of 80-proof vodka did when the last time they went to Scandals.

"I-is it r-really that bad?" Blaine choked out. He wondered if the strobe lights were all pointed at him, as the sweltering heat now radiated from under his purposefully standardized tux (or as he had carefully termed it, classic.) His eyebrows became U's, fearful of what Kurt might say like a 19th century student presenting their palms to a teacher. But instead of shying away from the sharp sting of the ruler, he would ultimately welcome it, as he had no one to blame but himself for coming in here looking like something out of a textbook on the evolution of human or… a book of Greek mythology.

"Uhh, yeah, you're Mr. Broccoli-Head," Brittany unwittingly jabbed at his self-esteem like a snake striking a mouse. "You made your point. I abused my powers as president; but to help save the prom and keep people from turning to stone when they look at you, I'll give you special permission-"

Blaine bounded towards the gym door, half-surprised by his own feet. Off in the distance, someone was shouting his name, but Blaine couldn't stop himself if he wanted to. Vaguely, the memory from last year's prom ghosted before him, and he momentarily laughed at the bitter irony of the situation, how he was in Kurt's position last year, fleeing from humiliation. He needed to gain control, he told himself, repeating the mantra as his feet lead him to the bathroom.

Fortunate it was that he instinctively went to the bathroom, for in a matter of seconds, Blaine felt a mixture of passion-fruit punch (successfully laced with rum), crackers, turkey, and bile surge ominously like a rumbling thunderstorm, preceded by a burst of lightning-fast panic. His primitive instinct kicked in as he smacked the stall door open and retched his stomach contents into the toilet, clinging to it like one of Harry Harlow's monkeys. Grasping the bowl seemed oddly comforting, despite the faint odor penetrating every crevice- piss masked by some nameless brand cleaner, its fumes reminiscent of toothpaste in the worst possible way. As the dry heaves diminished, Blaine realized that someone had been rubbing circles into his back, murmuring soothing nonsense like the incantations of herbal healers. He wondered when Kurt had gotten there.

Once he had stopped salivating as much, Blaine slumped against the graffitied stall barrier, too weak to consider the germs that he was practically bathing in, sweat beading on his forehead. His curls pressed into his forehead and he cringed, another reminder of the Medusa-like mess that ensnared the calm, cool, and collected Blaine everyone thought him to be. Out of all the moments to choose, it was here that Blaine's laboured breathing stuttered into staccato sobs as he brought his hand to his temple, his head pulsing with pressure. _God, am I pathetic_, he thought to himself, the façade of confidence crumbling like the stone statues of Brittany's taunt.

Kurt knelt down after flushing the toilet, one knee gingerly on the grotesque floor as his spine aligned with the small piece that adjoined the door and the wall. He wanted to give him the space he needed while still ensuring his curly-haired boyfriend that he was not alone. Kurt wasn't even sure if Blaine was aware that he was there, but as he watched his lover break down into tears, Kurt knew that Blaine needed him close. He scooped Blaine into his arms, rocking him back and forth gently, subconsciously humming a drawn-out melody that he later realized was The Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand." Blaine buried his head in Kurt's chest, wishing for nothing more than to have stayed at anti-prom and had an uneventful yet pleasant time watching Ellen, curled up with Kurt under the floral sheets that should have stayed in the 1980s. But no, Kurt was on a damp, noxious bathroom floor, spending his senior prom comforting his egregious boyfriend, and _it was all his fault._

"I'm sorry," Blaine blurted out in between big heaves of his chest. "I'm s-so sorry- I look hideous and now I'm r-ruining- everything and you should be out there- with Mercedes and Rachel dancing but you're in here- when you change in the nurse's office just to avoid the smell of the locker room." He clung to Kurt's tux for dear life.

The grip on Blaine's back tightened. He couldn't believe the overwhelming insecurity that plagued him, contrasting magnanimously from the first day they met, the one word text Blaine sent him that changed Kurt's mentality on bullying: _courage_. Harboring all that self-loathing, Kurt realized how much courage it must take Blaine to look at his curls everyday yet go around with an award-winning smile on his face.

"Blaine, I don't care if I'm in a sweaty high school gym having Ne-Yo blasted into my freaking DNA for four hours or listening to you puke your guts out. I care about spending the rest of my senior year with you, wherever that takes us, and if you're not comfortable with something, all you have to do is tell me. The only thing you should be sorry about is allowing yourself to hate something about you so trivial and think that it has some weight on my feelings for you. When will you realize, Blaine Courage-" Kurt stopped himself from saying Warbler, afraid that it may trigger another emotional outburst "-Anderson, that I love you for _you_. All parts of you. And for the record, I think your curls are adorable. I wish you showed them to me sooner." Cautiously, Kurt put a hand to his lover's bouncy fro, stroking his head as he kissed his forehead. He emphasized his next sentiment. "_Nothing _will make me leave you. You got that?"

Blaine looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, his sobs reduced to sniffling, the corners of his mouth upturned in the smallest possible way. He nodded, his eyes distant once again.

"Come on, lets ditch this shindig," Kurt pronounced, arching his feet to get up from the floor. "Are you gonna be okay, vomit-wise?" He offered a half-smile. Again, Blaine nodded, his eyes now fixated upon the floor.

Kurt helped him to his feet, their hands entwined. They made their way to the car, Kurt protectively securing his arm around Blaine's waist. They then drove to Kurt's house, where they spent the rest of the night with tea mugs in hand, embracing each other as they watched re-runs of Project Runway. Later, after Burt went to bed, they set the sound system on low to the languid legatos of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong and slow-danced around the couch, arm in arm.


End file.
